Chapter 26: When Her Fingers Found Mine
The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled of silver and longing.
Oriana didn't say anything at first. She just stood under the overhang of the school roof, hugging her books against her chest, her eyes avoiding mine as though afraid of what she'd find. The silence between us didn't feel like absence—it felt like something heavy, something blooming.
"Did you wait for me?" she asked finally, her voice soft, her eyes glinting with something fragile.
I nodded. "Yeah. I didn't want you to walk home alone."
She blinked slowly, as if trying to decide whether to smile or not. Then she shifted her weight and took a step closer. "You don't have to do that."
"I know," I said. "But I want to."
There was a pause—an entire world compressed into that breath between us—and then she let her books fall into the crook of her arm. Her hand brushed against mine, just slightly, a whisper of contact. My heart stammered.
She didn't pull away.
We walked slowly through the wet path behind the school, toward the narrow alley that led to the market road. The clouds overhead were still swollen with the aftertaste of the storm. Puddles glistened like pieces of glass. Our shoes splashed gently as we walked.
"I had a dream about you," Oriana said, so suddenly I almost stumbled.
I turned to her, unsure if I had heard right. "You did?"
"Mhm." She didn't meet my eyes. Her cheeks had gone the softest pink. "It was strange. You were wearing a white dress."
"Me?" I laughed, embarrassed and flattered all at once. "A dress?"
"It suited you," she said. "You were… smiling. Really smiling. Not like when you try to hide it. It was bright. Like summer coming through the curtains."
Her words hit me like wind. I didn't know what to say. I was so used to hiding, to shrinking myself down to something invisible. But when she talked about me, it felt like I was someone she saw—really saw.
"I think about you," I said quietly.
She turned her head. Her eyes were searching now, serious. "How?"
I swallowed. "Like… in the middle of things. Randomly. When I'm brushing my teeth. Or walking past the place where we first talked. It's like—" I stopped, laughing nervously. "You show up. In my mind. And everything feels... warmer."
Oriana didn't speak. She just looked at me, and there was something trembling in her gaze, like she was trying to decide whether to run away or step closer.
And then, she took my hand.
Not accidentally. Not brushing. Not pretending.
She took it. Held it. Intertwined our fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My heart might have stopped.
"I've wanted to do that for a while," she whispered.
I squeezed her hand gently, as if to say: Me too.
We walked in silence for a while, but it wasn't awkward. It was golden. The world felt quieter when her fingers were wrapped around mine. Like even the trees were leaning in to listen.
"Do you ever get scared?" she asked after a while.
"Scared of what?"
She hesitated. "Of being... seen. Like really seen."
I took a breath. "All the time."
"Me too," she said. "But when I'm with you, I think... maybe it's okay."
I looked over at her. "You're beautiful when you talk like that."
She blushed deeply, biting her lip. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
We reached the bridge just before her street. The water below was high from the storm, rushing like a river of voices. She stopped at the middle, leaning on the rail.
"Sometimes," she said, "I feel like I'm waiting for something I don't have the words for."
I moved beside her, close enough to feel the heat off her skin. "Maybe it's not something with words."
She turned to me, slowly, deliberately. "Maybe it's someone."
Her gaze was deeper now. Like she wasn't just looking at me—she was reading me. And I let her. I didn't flinch. I wanted her to know everything I'd been too afraid to say.
Her lips parted. She leaned in.
It was slow. A question. A storm returning, soft and heavy.
When our lips touched, it was gentle. Careful. The kind of kiss you give when you're afraid it might break something. Or fix something. Or both.
My fingers curled into her coat. Her free hand came up to touch my cheek. Everything was trembling. And yet nothing had ever felt more right.
We stayed like that—kissing slowly, the bridge holding us, the sky silent.
When we finally pulled apart, I saw tears in her eyes.
"Are you okay?" I whispered.
She nodded, smiling faintly. "I just… I didn't think I'd ever feel this."
I rested my forehead against hers. "Me neither."
We stood like that for a long time—two girls on a small bridge in a quiet town, pretending the world had finally gotten soft.
And maybe, for that moment, it had.
Later that night, I found a note tucked into my bag.
Her handwriting, looping and uneven:
"Anya, I think I'm falling in love with you.
And I think I want to keep falling.
—O"
I read it three times. Four. I didn't stop smiling.
Not even in my sleep.